


Day of the Dead

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [49]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark Dean Winchester, Day of the Dead, Dean Bears The Mark of Cain, Demon Dean Winchester, Dreams vs. Reality, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Halloween, Holy Water, M/M, Mark of Cain, Nightmares, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Series, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Psychic Sam, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Spirits, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Residue of what Dean has been and been through creep to the surface, stronger on certain nights of the year. The night of Halloween is one of those nights; at midnight, something new awaits him and his nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day of the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> "Hallelujah" by Rufus Wainwright while you read.

  
  
Look at him.  
  
Look at you.  
  
Him. You. HimyouSamDean.  
  
The body of Sam above him. On the ceiling. Flames dripping down. Old news. That's been done. You think I haven't dreamt about that?  
  
Stanford.  
  
Try again.  
  
Ru--no. Ca--nope.  
  
Je--don't even.  
  
These are the elements of his demise.  
  
His nightmare opens up to a page from a coloring book. At first he's given a pencil, but it warps into a quill. Pen nib. Indian ink. Scratch. Tear. Shred. Too sharp for the page he ends up ripping it down the middle and it is a picture of his own face.  
  
The blank eyes stare at him. Never more. Never more. The lids flap like wings, his eyelashes rustle, and the eyes turn...  
  
"Dean!"  
  
He visited Sam every other week in Palo Alto. John hovered. That was okay. Having sex with Sam was interesting on a twin bed in a dorm. But then Sam gave him an ultimatum: stop hunting. Apply to Stanford. Join him. It doesn't have to be this way, Dean. You can do more than visit. They have a good engineering program.  
  
Hallelujah. Softer. Hallelujah.  
  
He tied Sam to a kitchen chair. He broke his throne and cut his hair and from his lips he drew...  
  
They own this house. Dean is walking around it. It's no one else's but theirs and no hunter can find them. It's perfect. He takes the trash out on Thursdays and there, on the couch over there, is the blanket Mrs. Martinez crocheted for them.  
  
Rest. Thank you.  
  
At a party now. The coloring book slams shut. Dean fills a tuxedo and takes a breath. He can feel Sam's left hand pressing over the small of his back. The ring. He's never given anyone a ring before. Ever. Sam smiles at whomever he's talking to. Look at him. Lights up a room. As handsome as ever, with his hair brushed back, tucked behind his ears.  
  
"This is my husband," Sam says. "My better half."  
  
Everything is tinted red. The room tilts. Dean falls over and away from Sam, but he's the only one moving. Tumbling. Crashing.  
  
Look at him. Him. You. Himyou. Hallelujah. No one says their names apart. It's always been SamDean. And Dean has always prayed for Sam, even when there was no one else on the other line. He still did it. Because what else. What else.  
  
Falling doesn't frighten Dean.  
  
Screams wait for him below. When he lands he knows what'll happen.  
  
This again.  
  
Not this again.  
  
"Dean!"  
  
"Sam!"  
  
He wakes up with his hands wet. Oh god. What has he done? What else? What now?  
  
"Easy, easy, I'm okay. It's water."  
  
Looking down, Dean sees his hands in the kitchen sink, submerged under ice water. His heart is pounding. Something crawls up his spine, under his briefs, and it latches onto his neck. He growls. His lip curls and he clenches both hands.  
  
"Sam," is a warning, but it sounds like a threat. The ice cubes in the sink have melted and the water is boiling. From his left, Sam moves around. Dean can't look. He doesn't know what will happen if he does. The creature on his neck laughs. It spawns a twin, which ripples down to his arm.  _The_ arm. It hisses with glee and grins before it buries itself under the folds of his skin, in between the filets of tendon and muscles.  
  
A pinch takes hold in Dean's left lung. He growls at it, knowingly growling at himself. It hurts. So he wants to hurt it. He keeps his hands in the water, afraid to take them out. Afraid if what they might do.  
  
"Easy," Sam coos, "easy, love."  
  
Love? What's with the pet name? The water in the sink starts to evaporate. Dean hisses as Sam touches his neck. Stay away. The coloring book. Palo Alto. Competition. Relief. He tied Sam to a kitchen chair, broke this throne and cut...  
  
Lips press against Dean's.  
  
The water simmers and eyelids that refused to open unfurl. Sam sighs and tilts his head. Open up. His hands are on Dean's shoulders, firm and steady. Breathing in, feeling the pinch, Dean opens his mouth. He wants to growl into Sam. Pain. Anger. Rage. It hurts. It hurts so much.  
  
Something trickles into Dean's mouth. It sizzles when it passes from Sam to him. The taste is metallic.  
  
Blood?  
  
Dean tenses up. No. He can't. They can't...  
  
A voice slips into Dean's head. It doesn't laugh, nor does it mock. Very simply, it says, "Trust me, love."  
  
That sounds just like Sam. It  _is_ Sam. What's with the pet name? He tied Sam to a kitchen chair, he broke his throne, he cut his hair. And from his lips he drew a...  
  
Holy water.  
  
It passes through from Sam's tender, pink mouth and into Dean. It's diluted, to a ratio where it bubbles like champagne. The creature on Dean's neck screeches; it commands Dean to choke, to spit it back. Since it cries so loud, with magnetic force, Dean obeys. Stupid. Stupid boy. You had one job. What kind of man are you? Man up. Hold down the fort. Pick a fucking side.  
  
Sam presses forward. He lines his hips up with Dean's and slowly tilts them so that Dean's hands lift out of the sink. Long fingers grasp Dean's hands and settle them on the small of Sam's back.  
  
"Drink from me," that same voice soothes. "There you go, love. Swallow."  
  
Toe to toe they stand, with Dean against the counter. A package of oatmeal cookies is nearby. And the kettle floats by. Dean doesn't have to see it to know. He keeps his eyes closed as the kettle sails through the air and settles into the stove top with a clank. The burner turns on at a low flame. Dean inhales. There is no pinch. He takes a pull of water, thirsty now, like a desert. Every part of him heats up; he breathes out wisps of steam.  
  
Final throws of pain are howled from his neck and arm.  
  
The last of what Sam has to give passes through Dean's lips.  
  
Sam licks the bottom swell of Dean's mouth; his hands frame Dean's jaw. Slowly, Dean opens his eyes to hazel ones concernedly looking back at him. Look at him.

 

Above the stove, the microwave’s digital clock glows. The kettle begins to rattle. It’s midnight. November first.

That’s it.

Halloween is over.

Something pure washes over Dean, different than what clouded and disoriented him at the stroke of midnight on October thirty-first. It feels like sugar. It smiles. It grins. It laughs at his idea of death. It pulls a long, indulgent sip from a well of clear, clean, endless, and soothing water. Butterflies rustle in the distance and a woman sighs underneath a black, wide-brimmed hat. Nosing around the caverns of Dean’s heart, excavating every ventricle, this feeling creates a lightning bolt. Dean blinks. He sees himself white, glistening, and laughing. A full skeleton.

He opens his eyes. Sam.

Two hundred and six pearly, luminescent bones stare back at him. The woman joins hands with the feeling and twists Dean’s horror into something else, something new, something better. Don’t give up. He has never cut Sam’s hair off.

Look at him.

Look at you.

A cold, porcelain caress to his cheek from the woman, and Dean’s world slants to slot him into place with Sam. “Thank you,” he hears himself whisper, in the dim, quiet of their kitchen.

 

HimyouSamDean.

Reality.

  


**Author's Note:**

> two things to know here: la catrina and the spirti of the day of the dead. 
> 
> this is my nod to Halloween and dia de los muertos/ day of the dead. i was going to go for something fluffy this year, but decided to do this instead. i hope you enjoy it.
> 
> i encourage y'all to research and read about the day of the dead. it's not just about skulls and face paint. it is an actual holiday and tradition that means a lot to a lot of different people. since the boys live in pilsen, a mostly mexican community, they're surrounded by images of the day of the dead. i like to think that they start viewing death differently. 
> 
> so i hope y'all can determine what visits dean at midnight on november first. ahhh i just hope everyone picks up on everything. ;-; 
> 
> i'm also keen on exploring the leftovers of the boys' powers. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed! bring me candy! XD


End file.
